


A night of joy and wonder

by hobgoblin123



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2667899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobgoblin123/pseuds/hobgoblin123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Crown of Shadows; three years after their last encounter on Black RIdge Pass, Damien receives a very special visitor on Yule Eve. Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A night of joy and wonder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atheilen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/gifts).



> Dear Atheilen, 
> 
> as I wasn't assigned the CFT for Yuletide this year, alas, I opted for writing a treat for you, trying to include some of your wishes. As you requested, the story is post CoS, showing the paths of life Damien and Gerald chose after parting ways on Black Ridge Pass, and I even managed to include some 'interaction in the form of porn', lol :-D. As I'm not a native speaker, please bear up with my mistakes. That said, I really hope that you'll enjoy the read. Merry Christmas!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Warnings: slash, rated 'explicit' for a reason...

Credits: The grace Gerald says is a combination of two prayers I found in the world wide web. Sadly, I don't know the authors. The passage having him telling about the birth of Jesus is from Luke 2:1-20 (King James Version). The miracle of the feeding of the five thousand can be found in several gospels. Damien's line 'I am and will always be your friend' is a variation of Spock's famous 'I have been, and always shall be, your friend' (Star Trek, The Wrath of Khan, 1982), one of my favourite movies of all time. The quote about nothing being permanent except change is by Heraclitus of Ephesus, a pre-Socratic Greek philosopher.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_**Jaggonath, 24th December 1252 A.S.** _

Sweating profusely, Damien Kilcannon Vryce filled what was feeling like the hundredth soup bowl with the nuchicken broth he had prepared according to a traditional family recipe. Since he had initiated the semi-weekly feeding of the poor about eleven months ago, more and more outcasts of human society were queuing for a free meal each time. Tonight, it was particularly crowded. No wonder with regard to the fact that it was Yule Eve and the miserable souls who had found their way to what was usually his waiting room weren't just looking for a full belly but also for comforting company on what had been the Holy Night for a large part of the population on Earth.

Due to the fae reacting to the brain waves of living creatures, the Church of Unification had been forced to abandon the belief in a messiah along with saints and angels long ago. But although customs had changed considerably, the human heart hadn't in all those long years since their forefathers had conquered the icy depths of space. Neither pagans nor the believers in the One God wanted to be alone during the hours when a midwinter festival had been celebrated on the western hemisphere of their mother planet long before the Christian faith had taken root.

The former priest prayed with all his heart that his customers could take at least a tiny spark of joy and hope back to their dreary lives. He himself had lost all  enjoyment of life twice. First, when he had been forced to see Gerald's head thrown onto a pyre nigh to three and a half years ago, and then a few weeks later on Black Ridge Pass when the 'youth' had left him to his own devices and wandered off into his new life without looking back once. He should have laid his cards on the table on that fateful day, should have told Gerald or whatever his name was now about his change of feelings. But stunned by the revelations sprung upon him - and fearing the adept's acerbic tongue - he had missed his presumably last chance of suggesting taking their relationship to a new level. The reward of his cowardice had been crushing loneliness ever since, his private life being a wasteland no less barren than the Black Lands in the realms of the Undying Prince.

Stifling a sigh, Damien called himself to order. Compared to what some of his customers had gone through, there was no reason to bemoan his fate. The urge to heal had always been a deeply ingrained part of his personality, and as a general practitioner in one of the poorest quarters of Jaggonath, he had at least found a new meaning in life after the loss of both his religious vocation and his brother-in-arms. The beginning had been difficult, though. In order to be able to set up his doctor's office at all, he had been forced to contract debts, and treating people who more often than not paid in kind - if at all - certainly hadn't brought him any riches. The opening of the soup kitchen had further sapped his already meagre savings, and he had run his feet off for finding some sponsors. But in a world of chaotic change the flow of donations had left a lot to be desired at first, and on more occasions than he actually cared to count, providing a warm meal for the hungry souls turning up on his doorstep had meant cutting down on his own food intake.

But in September things had suddenly changed for the better. Very much to his amazement, a considerable sum of money had been transferred into his bank account. On inquiry, the bank manager had informed him that the transfer had been authorized by Raleigh, Hull & Maynooth, Esqs, in Park Lane, a renowned law firm catering for Jaggonath's well-to-do citizens. Believing that somebody had made a grievous mistake, he had stood on their doormat the first thing the next morning, just to be told that everything was correct and the money was indeed at his disposal, destined for purchasing medical equipment, medicines and provisions. Since then, punctually on the first of each month a no less generous donation arrived, but as the lawyers had invoked the protection of business secrets, he had never been able to find out anything about the identity of the anonymous benefactor.

On entering his festively decorated waiting room turned refectory, balancing a tray loaded with steaming bowls, the former priest let his gaze wander over the assembled crowd. Not a single one of his usual customers was missing, a good sign, as far as he was concerned. Life was never easy for the poor, but winter undeniably brought the most bitter hardship. Only last January one of his patients, old Mer MacArthur, had been found frozen to death in a snow-covered back alley, his stiff fingers still clutching an empty gin bottle.

But there were also some newcomers to their circle. Right beside the stately not fir tree he had bought and decorated this very morning, a family of seven he had never seen before had found its place. Malnutrition was written clearly all over each pinched face, and the rags they were wearing surely couldn't keep them warm in one of the worst winters in living memory. But the five children, the youngest still in his mother's arms, were staring at the tree in open wonder, and Damien smiled at the sight of their delight.

At the very next moment, his gaze locked on a strange figure sitting right across them at the eastern end of the long row of converted pasting tables, and he furrowed his brow. A lot of the folks gathering here tonight were either homeless or lacking money for buying sufficient firewood, and in order to grant them at least a few hours of warmth, he had piled up the fire until the room was resembling an oven itself. The heat was stifling, and there certainly was no need to cover oneself up from head to toe. But yet the man, if it was a man, hadn't bothered to take off his black cloak so far. He hadn't even pushed back the hood shadowing his face, an oddity which only added to his somewhat sinister appearance.

Maybe the fellow had been either scarred in an accident or born with a gruesome deformation of his face. Even when a Working had still been possible without sacrificing one's life, there hadn't been a cure for every ailment imaginable under the sun, let alone that quite a few parents had shied away from their child being submitted to what they were considering as evil sorcery. And although there was nothing like their mother planet's leprosy on Erna, certain venereal diseases could wreak no less havoc if they weren't treated properly.

These were the more harmless explanations, at least from Damien's point of view. But after working in the slums for almost three years now, he was well aware that there could be a darker reason for such a display of peculiar behaviour. Most of his clientele were decent if unfortunate men and women trying to scrape together a living without falling foul of the law. But there was no denying that there were some black sheep in the fold, rogues who didn't mind at all to pick a pocket every now and then or engage in other, even more dubious activities he'd rather not look into too closely. Hence, it didn't seemed too far fetched an idea that his cloaked guest was on the run from the police. The warrior knight sighed inwardly. As far as he was concerned, he could very well do without a bunch of constables storming his office on Yule Eve. Or on any other day, for that matter.

Even less desirable was the appearance of a ravenous demonling. In the wake of the taming of the fae, the thought processes of humans couldn't create vampires, wraiths and succubi any longer, just to mention a few of the creatures which had been exacting a heavy death toll on the settlers since the landing. But this didn't mean that there weren't enough and to spare of the faeborn left, hunting for sustenance under the cover of darkness just like the Lord of the Forest had done for almost ten centuries.

Putting down his tray at long last, Damien chastised himself for letting his imagination run wild. Very likely the man was just touched in the head. He wouldn't be the only one among the hungry souls eagerly awaiting the starter who preferred the delusions of his own mind to a grim reality which had lost every appeal to him.

Be that as it may, busy as hell Vryce couldn't dwell on the questionable sanity of the stranger any longer. Darting back into his kitchen, he muttered a vicious curse directed at his lamentably absent volunteers under his breath. His long-serving assistant Michael had at least deigned to report sick in the morning, something not altogether surprising with regard to the fact that half Jaggonath seemed to be down with a cold or worse. But the two other helpers had simply failed to turn up at four o'clock, doubtlessly preferring to go bar-hopping instead of fulfilling their duties. Damn them!

Everything wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't insisted on a certain ritual dear to him. Right from the start, he had made a point of not hinging his help on his customers' willingness - or lack thereof - to convert to his faith. Everybody was welcome, be it a believer in the One God or a member of the pagan multitudes. As far as the former priest was concerned, it was far better to set a good example by providing active support than pestering people with religious indoctrination which would do them a fat lot of good, anyway. But saying grace together before the meal was a tradition he verily intended to adhere to, especially on this particular night. The only problem was that although he was by no means a slow coach, it was simply too much work for one single man. If he continued at the same rate, the first servings would have already cooled down when the last of the soup bowls were being handed out. It was enough to bring one to despair!

"It looks as if you could do with a helping hand, Vryce."

The warrior knight had only heard this slightly husky voice once, but he would have recognized it among thousands. Shell-shocked, he whirled around and found himself no more than two feet away from the very same human being who had turned his entire world upside down once again on Black Ridge Pass. Having finally pushed back the hood of his fur-trimmed, richly embroidered cloak, the 'youth' regarded him with eyes as black as a midwinter night, and Vryce forgot how to breathe. The bowl he had just been about setting down on the tray slipped from his shaking hands and shattered on the floor tiles, splattering their trouser legs with the soup which had been supposed to feed a hungry mouth. Running purely on instinct, he bent down, just to bang his head against the adept's with a vengeance. For a few seconds, he saw nothing but stars.

"There's never been a doubt that you've got a head like concrete, but I'd rather not be the living proof of it," the man who had been the Hunter in an era now the stuff of legends being told by the fireside said wryly, pressing a slender hand against the rapidly growing bruise on his forehead. "Nor would I rejoice at having to spend this night in bed with a concussion. It's not quite what I had in mind to celebrate our reunion."

If Damien had listened more closely, he might have registered a strange undertone in his former ally's voice, implying that there was a hidden meaning behind the seemingly innocuous words. But in his current state of agitation, the art of subtlety was utterly lost on him.

As if in a trance, he headed for his surgery on wobbly legs and unearthed a cooling salve from his medicine cupboard. "Here. Use this, or you'll have a bump the size of a nugoose egg in the morning" he barked gruffly. "We don't want you to have a fit of the blues because something mars your pretty face, do we?"

The adept chuckled. "I'm deeply indebted to you, Vryce. For your concern and the nice compliment alike. But shouldn't you apply the unction yourself? After all, you're the member of the healing profession and not I."

' _The nice compliment_ ''? Dumbfounded, the warrior knight couldn't help but stare, his mouth hanging ajar. The Lord was his witness that this man knew how to raise his hackles like no other, an unpleasantness evidently neither his death on the slopes of Mount Shaitan nor his transformation in the bowels of the Hunter's Keep had changed for the better. For a drawn-out moment, he contemplated pivoting on his heels and leaving this walking, talking nuisance to his own devices. With regard to his undiminished skill in annoying the hell out of him, the new incarnation of the Neocount's soul certainly wasn't suffering from a concussion, not even from a very mild one, and it wouldn't kill him if he got his dainty hands greasy by applying the salve himself. But in a way, his vis-à-vis had a point. Whether he liked it or not, he _was_ the healer in charge, and it wouldn't do to neglect his duties, let alone wondering whether a necklace made of bloodshot dabs wouldn't be rather becoming to a certain slender throat.

Grudgingly, he scooped a generous portion of the ointment from the jar and dabbed it on the bruise, but he should have known better. As soon as his fingers were touching the deceptively youthful face, a flash of pure, unbridled longing shot through him like a bolt of lightning, and what was left of his professionalism instantly went to hell in a handbasket. Merciful God in heaven, with his long mane of raven black hair reaching down to his waistline and those fathomless eyes one could drown in what had become of Gerald Tarrant was no less breathtakingly beautiful than the Prince of Jahanna had been. Sometimes, in the deep of night, he still dreamed about glittering silver irises and silky, light brown hair which reflected the golden glow of the Core, the nocturnal outgrowths of his unconscious mind usually leaving him in need of fresh pajama pants. But it was beyond dispute that the vulking bastard hadn't gotten an altogether bad deal when he had struck his latest compact.

His fingers moving seemingly on their own account, Damien gazed his fill on the only specimen of the male gender he had ever desired, but he didn't dare to indulge in those feelings. Not now, maybe not ever. Notwithstanding the fact that he was still in love with 'Gerald' after all those years which had passed since they had gone separate ways, he wasn't blind to the faults of a man who could be a veritable pain in the neck even on a good day.

The reason for his reluctance weren't the adept's irks and quirks in form of his amusing vanity and his rather less tolerable arrogance and sarcasm, though. With those, he could have dealt with. But his former companion had ruthlessly manipulated him on that fateful day at the keep, had tricked him into deserting him and condemned him to his own private hell of grief and remorse for weeks on end in the process. Then he had suddenly arisen again like a phoenix from the ashes, just to make himself scarce for a second time immediately afterwards. Going through anything like this for a third time would destroy him. Not his body in all probability, although he had no intention whatsoever of finding out whether one could truly die from a broken heart, but his soul for sure. It was better to make a painful break than to draw out the agony.

Dark eyes were gazing up to him with a much too knowing expression for his peace of mind, and he snatched his hand away as if he had burned himself. "You won't suffer permanent damage," he blustered in order to hide his embarrassment. "And now feel free to move on. With regard to the fact that your flashy cloak presumably costs more than the entire equipment of my office, you certainly don't have to rely on a free meal."

"The soul of courtesy, as usual. I've always considered your bluntness as one of your redeeming traits, Vryce, but I'd be very much obliged to you if I could introduce myself before we continue our _fascinating_ discussion." The way the 'youth' was bowing with consummate grace evoked memories of days gone by, and Damien's heart clenched painfully inside his chest. "Gerald Hawthorne, at your service."

"Pleased to meet you," the warrior knight muttered automatically.

"The pleasure is all mine. As we've satisfied the demands of politeness now, you'd better get going. Thank goodness there's no need of feeding five thousand, a feat far beyond our powers, I'm afraid. But the stuff you try to sell off as a decent nuchicken broth is getting colder by the second."

Valiantly ignoring the haughty condescension in the adept's light baritone, Vryce washed his hands, swept up the tray without a further word and carried it into the refectory. Handing out the helpings to his hungry guests, he forced a smile on his face and exchanged greetings without even remotely knowing what he was saying. But he very nearly dropped the last piece of earthenware when he saw Hawthorne emerging from the kitchen with one of his spare trays, carrying it with an effortlessness belying his lithe frame. To his mystification, the very man who had never deigned to lift a finger when they had set up camp now served dinner with an air of utter naturalness, bantering with the children, complementing the ladies to their threadbare Sunday dresses he wouldn't have touched with a barge pole in his previous existence and generally charming the pants off everybody as if he hadn't done anything else in his entire life.

"Who wants to say grace for what the Lord has given us tonight?" Damien asked when they were finally sitting at the banquet table together. As usual, everybody was looking intently down at their laps, carefully avoiding his eyes like pupils who didn't want to solve a difficult problem. But just when he had resigned himself to say the prayer as he had done so many times before, a quiet, composed voice started to speak. "O Lord, we thank you for the gifts of your bounty we enjoy at this table. For rest and home and all things good. For wind and rain and sun above, but most of all for those we love. As you have provided for us in the past, so may you sustain us throughout our lives. Amen."

"Amen." A lot of his customers fell in, and the former priest thought he could see more than one pair of eyes glittering suspiciously. But soon enough, the inviting aroma of the broth gained the victory over emotion, and everybody began to tuck in as if there were no tomorrow. Everybody but the surprise guest and the host of the evening, that is. The former had already passed his portion to the family sitting across him, a deed that earned him a beaming smile from the five children graced with the same coppery curls as their careworn mother.

As for the latter, he couldn't force anything through his constricted throat. Almost choking on his unshed tears, the warrior knight found himself incapable of tearing his eyes away from the man who was calling himself Gerald Hawthorne after his transformation. Talking animatedly to his table neighbour, a rosy glow on his cheeks and his eyes sparkling in the candlelight like a pair of black not diamonds, the adept was literally glowing with life. Gone were the inhuman detachment, the icy chill and blood-curdling aura of malevolence Vryce remembered so well from travelling with the Hunter. Surely vast expanses of darkness never brightened by a single ray of light since the Neocount of Merentha's abysmal fall from grace had to exist in the fathomless depths of this ancient soul. A millennium of serving the forces of pure evil, committing atrocities far beyond human reckoning, couldn't be wiped out within a few years. Maybe a whole human life span wouldn't suffice. But however corrupted he might still be deep down inside, not even the faintest trace of the taint was palpable tonight.

For a fleeting moment Damien wondered how it would be to have him at his side for the remainder of his days, to work for the common good together and lay in each other's arms after a hard day's work, but he stifled the foolish notion with all his might and main. Gerald wasn't meant for such a life. He wasn't a humble healer but a universal genius, a brilliant scientist and natural leader of men destined for something better than working his butt off for the down and out. Whatever had driven him to pay a visit, he would be gone in a few hours, would walk out on him as he had done before and would take all light and laughter with him. Daydreaming about making love to him was beyond foolhardiness. The adept was an aesthete, a connoisseur concerning women, had been married and sired three children in his early mortal days. Why the heck should a man like him want to bed Damien Kilcannon Vryce of all people?

"Healer Vryce?" A gentle nudge in his ribs brought him back to the here and now. "Although my own interests lay more on the conventional side, if you know what I mean, I won't deny that his Lordship is quite a pretty sight in his tight black leather pants," the hulk sitting beside him said with a gap-toothed grin. "But our bowls are empty, and everybody's waiting for you. You can get off with him later. As a sweet dessert, so to say."

Calling himself three times a fool for his neglect of duty, apart from other things best left unmentioned, Damien blushed furiously. To hell with Gerald _Hawthorne_ in general and his ability for making him look like a complete and utter fool in particular! Some things very much to his dismay evidently never changed. Of course Jim Abernathy didn't mean any harm. Being a regular right from the start, the former carpenter who had lost his entire family in a quake and sought comfort in the booze henceforward had taken quite a liking to him, had even made his bookshelves for a very modest fee. But he had no intention whatsoever to discuss his sexual orientation with one of his customers, let alone his anyway non existent love life.

Shrugging off his embarrassment, Vryce got to his feet and started to collect the dirty dishes. With the aid of several pairs of helping hands, a Yule miracle all in itself, they quickly made room for plates filled to the brim with slices of roast beef and roast potatoes, followed by the traditional Yule pudding. At the sight of the imposing artwork the warrior knight had purchased at a delicatessen in Park Lane, blazing with ignited brandy and decorated with nuholly, the children broke out in squeals of sheer delight, and even the adults applauded with shining eyes. His heart warming, Damien sent a silent _thank you_ at the address of the unknown philanthropist who had made all of this possible with his generous allowance. May the Lord in His wisdom see to it that their benefactor wouldn't change his mind anytime soon. Or simply pass away, be it from plain old age, a sickness or an accident. The one thing he truly wanted was forever out of his reach. But if he could have this, making the slums of Jaggonath a better place even if it was just for a single night, he would be content with his lot.

Suddenly Damien realized that the room had gone eerily quiet. Looking up from his dessert plate with a start, he saw that pastry forks had frozen in mid air and cups with herbal tea and not coffee remained untouched while everybody was hanging at Hawthorne's lips with rapt attention, imbibing his words like a man dying with thirst would have drunk from a cold, clear well.

"And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered," Gerald was reciting reverently, a faint smile on his face. "And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

Even a minute after the last word had died away, one could have heard a pin drop in his waiting room. Although he had resigned from his priesthood nigh to four years ago, Damien still had his ways and means of being up on the developments within the institution which had once meant the world to him. He had it from a reliable source that the new patriarch was contemplating returning to the religious customs of their mother planet. As one didn't need to fear any longer that the belief in a messiah would spawn new hordes of demonlings each night, the idea somehow suggested itself. But for the time being, he couldn't have cared less about the path the Church of Unification would choose in the end.

Hearing the founder-father of his faith telling the ancient story which had travelled across space along with the colonists from Earth, nowadays only known to a few carefully selected church representatives, had hit him like a blow. Hawthorne didn't look like Gerald Tarrant at all, nor did his voice resemble the light tenor which still haunted him in his dreams, but the cadence and his patterns of speech were unmistakably the same. Thus the Prophet of the Law must have sounded when when he had preached to the community of the faithful, striving to bring light to a world which had sunk into darkness after the loss of their forefathers' wondrous technology. As a reward for his efforts, the very beneficiaries of his ingenuity and devotion had condemned him for his adeptitude, an innateness as natural to him as breathing, had cornered him until he had seen no way out other than bartering his humanity to the forces of the dark. And this hadn't been the last time a pack of wolves in sheep's clothing had closed in for the kill.

There was no denying that the creature called the Darkest Prince of Hell with good reason couldn't have been allowed to continue torturing and killing for his pleasure for all eternity. Damien himself had sworn to be his undoing before he had met him in person. But after Gerald had died on Mount Shaitan, the progenitor of the Iezu had resurrected him as a mere mortal, a man breathing, bleeding and tiring like any other. Unfortunately, neither sacrificing an existence spanning almost a millennium for the sake of mankind nor his return to the ranks of the living had done him any good when he had run into a full-blown crusade waiting for him in his domain.

Very much against his will, memories of the day he had thought Tarrant murdered by his last living descendant resurfaced from a corner of his mind he usually tried to keep strictly under lock and key: the adept's consternation at the preposterous violation of his storeroom of knowledge, his face drawn and haggard from exhaustion under the layers of sweat and grime, Andrys with his spring bolt, dashing like a fairy tale prince in the copy of his ancestor's armour but a glimmer of madness brightening his green eyes, his own soul-crushing despair. But nothing was more gruelling than the image of a severed head, held up in triumph by strands of golden brown, blood-matted hair.

As he had done so often in the manifold long, lonely nights he had lain wide-awake since their encounter on Black Ridge Pass, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom with burning eyes, the warrior knight couldn't help but wondering what would have happened if Gerald had only trusted him enough to let him in on the plan his brilliant but yet twisted mind had hatched. Or if he had dug in his heels and refused to desert the man he had come to cherish beyond anything he would have thought possible in his wildest dreams. Would they have overcome the odds and walked into the new world they had helped creating hand in hand? Stayed friends or even become lovers, as far fetched as the idea might seem? But it was all water under the bridge now, anyway. What had come to pass couldn't be undone anymore, and each of them had to live with the consequences of their decisions.

Utterly oblivious to his anguish of mind, the black-haired reason for it had progressed to entertaining a bunch of children by performing little tricks. Silver coins disappeared as if by magic, just to turn up again behind an unwashed ear or in a torn front pocket, and Damien didn't fail to register that instead of claiming the money back, Hawthorne was settling for drawing another exemplar from the seemingly inexhaustible supply in his purse for each display of his dexterity. As matters stood, it wouldn't have taken the cash flow to get his juvenile audience completely under his spell. Happily smiling faces were all around him, and the second youngest of the redheads, still a thumb-sucking toddler, had even climbed on his lap, curling up like an unkitten on the precious layers of gold-embroidered velvet and silk. To Damien's astonishment, the very man who had abhorred the slightest crease in his robes, not to mention the touch of humans, tolerated the tiny invader of his personal space without so much as batting an eyelash.

Seeing him thus, somehow familiar but yet so very different, proved too much for the warrior knight's already frayed nerves. As he was feeling a sob building up in his throat, he jumped to his feet and fled into the kitchen which looked as if it had been hit by one of the explosives the crusaders had used to raze the black replica of Merentha Castle to the ground. For a while, he managed to distract himself by performing household chores, letting hot water run in the sink and washing the first pile of plates. But then something inside him gave way, and up to his forearms in dishwater, he finally allowed his tears to flow freely.

"Are you alright?"

Damn! "Have never been better," Damien ground out between clenched teeth, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "It's just the vulking not onion skins."

"I see." From the corners of his eyes, he could see that the adept was shooting him a speculative glance. "If I didn't know that you've already taken out the trash, I might be inclined to believe you. So what's the matter, Vryce? You surely aren't crying like a baby because of my conjuring tricks, are you? I'm lamentably a tad out of practise, but they aren't _that_ bad."

Hawthorne's face was perfectly serene, but if the former priest had still been able to think straight, he might have noticed a trace of honest concern in his voice. But he wasn't. Not by a long shot. "Why the hell are you here?" he blurted out. "More than three years ago, you vanished into thin air without giving a shit for my welfare, and now you pop up for whatever weird reason of yours and expect me to behave as if nothing has happened. Have you lost your mind? Not that this would come as quite a surprise."

"Why, I thought this would be obvious. Last but not least, I wanted to make sure that my money is well invested."

"Your..." Utterly taken aback not for the first time that night, Damien blinked. It took him a while to make sense of the somewhat cryptic statement, but when the truth was slowly but surely beginning to dawn on him, he saw red. "So you're the anonymous donator!" he growled. "I should have known all along, fool that I am. Come to think of it, it truly bears your signature. Why being straightforward when you can pull the strings in the background? But do you know what you can do with your vulking bucks, Gerald? Take them and shove them where the sun doesn't shine! I don't need your alms, you devious son of a..."

"Oh yes, you do," the adept cut him off, utterly unfazed by his tirade. "But this isn't about alms. I'd rather call it an investment in the future."

"You might be astonished to hear this, but right now I don't give a damn about the correct labeling of your latest prank, you nitpicking know-it-all. An investment of all things! At any moment, you'll tell me something about the interest you intent to charge."

Hawthorne raised an elegantly arched eyebrow. "Don't be a bigger idiot than absolutely necessary, Vryce. You're going to pay interest alright, but of a different kind than you have in mind."

"Is that so? To be honest, I've had it up to here with you beating about the bush. So just in case you feel obliged to enlighten me, a very welcome change, by the way, kindly let the cat out of the bag and be done with it. I've got work to do."

"If you had heard me out instead of wasting your breath on ranting and raving, you would be already much the wiser now," the former Hunter snapped irritably. "But never mind! I'm not in the mood for bickering. I'd just like to remind you that answering your question, I said 'last but not least' and not 'solely'. Not once I pretended that checking up on your charitable activities was the only reason for seeking you out. But whatever my intentions, I can assure you that making you cry was about the last thing I wanted to do."

"How many times do I have to tell you that it were the not onions?"

"Repeating a lie doesn't make it true, Vryce. As a priest, something you've never ceased to be in my eyes, you should know this."

"Alright, you've got me there! Are you satisfied now?" Trembling in every limb, Damien drew a calming breath. "Just forget about my brief bout of sentimentality, will you? It wasn't your fault. Not really," he muttered, his cheeks crimson. "But while we're at it, I wouldn't mind a bit of straight talking on your part, Gerald. Why _are_ you here?"

For the first time that night, Hawthorne looked distinctly uncomfortable. "That's a loaded question, and you might not like what you're going to hear," he warned. "Elaborating on my feelings isn't one of my favourite pastimes, as you very well know. The same could be said about admitting mistakes. But I'm afraid that the time has come I won't get around either of them."

"Go on. I'm all ears."

"This goes without saying." The adept swallowed convulsively. "When I left you on Black Ridge Pass, you surely thought that I wasn't keen on your company any longer. Nothing could have been further from the truth. But I was... terrified that if I stayed, something would happen for which I wasn't ready. I am now. But should you want nothing more to do with me, I'll understand and won't bother you anymore. You have my word that your decision won't interfere with my financial support."

This was an eye-opener Vryce hadn't expected. On hearing this, however veiled, admittance of affection for him, something cold and hard inside him melted. But after everything he had been through, he had no intention whatsoever to let the man who had made his life a living hell for such a long time off the hook so easily. "You're still speaking in riddles," he said with deceptive gentleness. "So what is it you're ready for now? Friendship? I am and will always be your friend. Or are you after something altogether different? Tell me what you need, and I'll see what I can do for you."

Hawthorne opened his mouth and closed it again without uttering so much as a single syllable, evidently being at the loss for words for the first time since they had met in the dae in Briand so many years ago. Sensing that the tide had turned and he was somehow getting the upper hand, another incredible debut in their tumultuous relationship, Damien grasped his narrow shoulders, whirled him around before he could object and pressed him against the sink with the weight of his still considerable bulk.

The adept's breath sped up, and his pulse started to hammer visibly at the curve of his neck. It certainly wasn't fear of being overpowered by him. Although Gerald was about two inches shorter than him in his current incarnation and couldn't weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds at the very most, the warrior knight didn't harbour a sliver of doubt that he could still put up a good fight, with his teeth and nails if need be.

But the man in his arms didn't try to free himself. He stood perfectly still as if frozen to ice, his excitement only given away by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Vryce grinned inwardly. If he was reading the signs correctly, his former brother-in-arms wouldn't be altogether adverse to what he was planning. He only had to get the bastard whose pride and obstinacy were only rivalled by his hunger for knowledge to admit it. "Don't have anything to say for a change? Then let me help you to make up your mind. Is this what you want?" he breathed, starting to roll his hips in a slow, undulating motion. "It's all there for the taking, Gerald. You only have to verbalize your needs."

A flash of defiance passed over the striking features so very close to him. "Like hell I will!" Hawthorne hissed very much in the manner of an annoyed uncat. "You don't really expect me to... to..."

"To what? Confess that you want me to pull down your trousers and mount you right here, fuck you hard and fast until you forget all about your vulking stiff upper lip and beg for more?"

His breath flying, the adept stared at him with wide open eyes, his pupils so dilated that just a small circle of his dark irises was visible. For a small eternity, the world seemed to stand still, but then the corners of his mouth turned up into an amused smile. "I would have put it less crude," he said, "but apart from your choice of words, it sums it up very nicely. Yes, Vryce, I want you to lay with me. To _fuck_ me. Here and now."

Hearing this obscenity from those smooth lips, Damien very nearly came undone. The part of his brain not yet turned into mush under the onrush of a veritable flood wave of sexual hormones dimly remembered that it wasn't altogether prudent to indulge in a lustful romp while roundabout fifty men, women and children were waiting for his long overdue reappearance right next door. But when Gerald wound his fingers into his hair and pulled him into a kiss, the last barriers of his self-control crumbled into dust. He simply couldn't wait for another hour or two, had to have the object of his desire without delay, or he would explode like one of the supernovae the Hunter had told him about on board of the Golden Glory.

The kitchen was out of the question, though. Dirty plates, pots and pans were piling up everywhere, and as tempting as the idea of screwing Hawthorne senseless of his worktop might be, looking for a somewhat more hospital surrounding with a lockable door handle seemed rather advisable if one wanted to avoid a nasty surprise. For a few seconds, the warrior knight wavered, at loss what to do. But then a thought popped up in his mind, and he broke out into a broad grin. "Let's go to my surgery," he suggested, snatching a flask of cooking oil from his kitchen shelf in passing. "Now the time has come you can make sure that your vulking money was well-invested, indeed."

Unfortunately, they had to cross his waiting room in order to reach their destination. But as his entire being was exclusively focussed on the man walking at his side as gracefully as a feline predator, Vryce was utterly oblivious to both the quizzical glances all around him and Jim Abernathy giving him the thumbs-up with a lewd grin.

In the end, they barely managed to make it to the brand new therapy table Damien had bought from the last allowance, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind them. The last thing the cognitive centre of his brain actually processed was Gerald pushing him on his back and straddling him without further ado. From then on, everything became a blur. There were no coherent thoughts any longer, no 'what if's' and 'might-have-beens'. Just a hot, hungry mouth plundering his own, slender but so very determined hands guiding him where he had never gone before after coating his straining erection in the slick torghal seed oil and the incredible tightness and friction which surpassed anything he had ever experienced while laying with a woman.

Daydreaming about bedding the adept, he had always imagined him to be cool and aloof even in the throes of passion, but this proved to be an utterly false estimation. His eyes closed and his head thrown back in rapture, Hawthorne rode him with reckless abandon, pulling back and then slamming down on him again and again with all his might and main until he thought he would die from sheer bliss. If this went on, he surely wouldn't last another minute. But he didn't have to, anyway. With a muffled shout, Hawthorne came on top of him, and as the rhythmic pulse inside him triggered his own climax, Damien saw stars for the second time that night.

It was already long after midnight when they finally found a moment of peace and quiet in the warrior knight's living room, nursing a glass of halfway decent red wine he had bought on a whim a week ago. Stifling a yawn, he reviewed the occurrences of the previous hours. Returning to the merry crowd which had overheard what had happened in his surgery had been a quite embarrassing experience, to put it mildly. At least for his own humble self. Gerald evidently hadn't harboured any suchlike sentiments. An eyebrow raised in sardonic amusement, he had bowed in all directions with a flourish, utterly unperturbed by the chorus of wolf whistles and salacious comments not really meant for the minors among them.

But aside from this slight drawback in form of burning ears on Vryce's part, there was no denying that the evening had been a full success. For several hours, they had been sitting together, drinking alcohol free wassail, cracking nuts and sharing old and new stories. To everybody's delight, the adept had told the ancient tale about the birth of old Earth's messiah again, adding some background information in easily digestible morsels, and a spark of hope had replaced the dull resignation in many a pair of eyes. Damien himself had barely managed to blink back his tears. Thanks to Hawthorne's pecuniary aid, he had provided his customers with a hot meal and a few hours of warmth, but what the man had given to them in person was worth its weight in gold.

Alternately singing Yule carols, playing games and talking about the religious customs on their mother planet, time had flown by. The first families with little children had headed home, if their draughty, cramped dwellings could be called a home, at about ten o'clock, clutching not paper bags with the leftovers and clothes donations. But Jim Abernathy and a few of his cronies hadn't left until half past eleven, understandably not altogether keen on bartering a cosy place at the fireside to the snow-covered streets of Jaggonath. As bleary-eyed as he was, the former priest had decided to leave the washing up for the following morning. Hopefully, at least one of his helpers would turn up after sleeping off his hangover. And if not - well, it wouldn't be the first time that he was forced to deal with the utter chaos in his kitchen on his own.

But it wasn't just the exhaustion of his body that was starting to wear on him. Although they had been all over each other like two nudogs in heat, his lover hadn't deigned to hold forth about his long-term intentions so far. The fact that he had admitted harbouring feelings for him - and that he was still around instead of wandering out into the night - didn't necessarily mean that he was going to stay until they were both old and grey. Knowing the man's propensity to sudden vanishing acts, he certainly wasn't naive enough to put bidding him farewell after finishing his nightcap beyond him.

"A penny for your thoughts, Vryce," a by now rather familiar light baritone reached his ears over the sound of the flames crackling merrily in the fireplace.

Not in the least willing to share his misgivings, Damien sipped at his wine in order to play for time. "Well," he said at long last. "Mind telling me what you've been doing since our last meeting?"

"I travelled. I even went to visit Ganji-on-the-Cliffs and taught at the seminary for a while."

"You? Forgive me for being blunt, but you don't strike me as one possessing the mandatory patience for teaching."

"But yet I did, and with considerable success, I dare say," the adept retorted calmly without raising to the bait. "But it wasn't what I really wanted. Hence, I returned to Jaggonath and founded the Hawthorne Institute for Scientific Research. Our lack of knowledge is our greatest enemy, Vryce. Who knows better than you that Erna's medical technology is still in its infancy? Every day people die because of our ignorance, and there's worse to come. So very soon, the quake wards will fail, and what then? I don't want to live through another... through a dark age."

"Neither do I. But why setting up your own company? You could just as well have aspired to a professorship at Jaggonath University, for example. With your... scientific background, they would have certainly welcomed you with open arms."

"You choose to forget that I'm wanting certain papers to prove what you call my 'background'. But this actually was the least of my worries. Sometimes, knowing a skilled forger is a priceless advantage, or I would have never been accepted by your old alma mater in the first place."

"So what was the problem?"

"You'd better remember that it's not always the brightest heads which end up holding a chair," Hawthorne snorted scornfully, his voice vibrating with suppressed anger. "I can't speak for the other departments, but the school of natural science is a veritable snake pit. A cliquism, to employ a current vogue expression. We're rapidly running out of time, and I don't intend to waste any of it by paying court to blatant fools whose pompousness is only surpassed by their shortsightedness."

The adept drew a deep breath. "But this shouldn't concern us now, eh? Asking what was going on inside your head, I was well aware that you weren't wondering about my pastimes. Or my career plans, for that matter. What you really want to learn is whether I'll walk away again. After everything that has come to pass, I can't really hold it against you."

"I've got to admit that the thought has crossed my mind," Damien said drily. "So what now, Gerald? Were you just looking for a vulking one-night-stand? If so, this is the right point in time to take your leave. Or do you have anything a bit more lasting in mind?"

"Just so. Stating that I was considering financing your helper's syndrome as an investment in the future, I wasn't joking. We could work hand in hand. You patients would benefit of our technological developments in the medical sector, sparing us having to look elsewhere for voluntary probands in return. Quid pro quo." Registering the warrior knight's darkening mien, Hawthorne chuckled. "Kindly unknit your brow, Vryce. You needn't fear that I'll take advantage of your precious wards. And as for our private life: a very wise man once said that there was nothing permanent except change. On the basis of my experience, I'm inclined to agree with him, although it remains debatable whether people's stupidity shouldn't have also made it on his rather short list. But don't let it trouble you! It will take a long time until you've paid off your debts. Speaking of which, I wouldn't mind at all if you started right now. The first installment left me hungry for more."

A load having been taken off his shoulders, Damien burst out laughing. Gerald was truly one of a kind. In all probability, he would never walk with him hand in hand in the moonlight or call him pet names, let alone saying the famous three words. It simply wasn't in his nature. But the light shining in those dark, mesmerizing eyes told him everything he had to know.

Still grinning, he scooped his lover up and carried him to the bed. "Who am I to disagree? But this time, we're going to do it my way. Nice and slow," he murmured, his fingers already busy with unfastening buttons and laces. When they had slept together a few hours ago, there had been next to no time for exploring each other's bodies to their heart's content, for the caresses and tender kisses he was longing for. But now, in the blessed absence of an audience, he verily intended to enjoy their lovemaking to the full.

Tracing a hot line from the hollow at the base of Hawthorne's throat to his abdomen with his mouth, he glided downwards until his face was level with the adept's groin. The man stretched out beneath him smelled of arousal and the curd soap he had cleaned himself with after their tryst, along with a very faint whiff of something deliciously spicy. Not sandalwood, if he wasn't completely mistaken. But everything paled against Gerald's wistful sigh when his lips were closing around him.

Relishing in the feel of silky skin over unyielding hardness, he took him deeper, just to pull back and circle the glans with the tip of his tongue. Again and again until the firm buttocks cupped in his hands tightened and the lithe body of his lover arched up into his touch, wordlessly begging for more. Whether it was purely instinct or a faint remnant of the mind link he had shared with the Lord of the Forest, he knew without a sliver of doubt that it would take only a few repetitions of the manoeuvre to make him come. But this wasn't quite what he was having in mind. Not in this particular manner, that is.

Remembering how much pleasure the adept had gained from riding him, Damien stopped his licking and sucking and gently pushed his right middle finger into the tight, oiled channel instead. At first, he just brushed the round bulb of tissue at the front of the rectum while slowly moving his digit back and forth. But when Hawthorne fisted his hands in his hair with a low whimper, he couldn't resist any longer and rubbed harder, concentrating the stimulation on the area where it would be appreciated most.

"Stop it, Vryce," the former Hunter moaned suddenly. "I don't deny that this is pleasurable in the extreme, but I'd rather orgasm with you inside me."

His own neglected erection screaming for attention rather insistently by now, he didn't need to be told twice. In a heartbeat, he was face to face with his lover and pressed inside, carefully watching out for a sign of pain on the beautiful features. But he had worried in vain. The youthful body harbouring an ancient soul eagerly opened up for him with a shudder of lust which very nearly caused him to forget his good resolutions. For a while, he managed to keep his thrusts slow and shallow, though, distracting himself by means of nibbling at an erect nipple and showering kisses on the unblemished skin on Hawthorne's chest. But with the adept's cock twitching against his belly each time he hit home and his fingers digging deeply into his nether cheeks and urging him on, exercising self-restraint was becoming increasingly difficult. Then those devilish internal muscles clenched almost painfully around him, propelling his arousal to an unprecedented level, and he was lost. Panting, he accelerated the pace, pumping his hips as hard and fast as he could until the face of the man writhing against him with rising urgency twisted into a grimace of pleasure. The very next moment, Gerald started to spill beneath him, crying out his name as he was jerking convulsively in his arms, and he joined him with a scream which could have woken the dead.

In the small hours of the morning, Damien woke-up from a well-deserved nap. Erna's moons had already set, but the glow of the Core bathed the human being sleeping peacefully at his side in an unearthly light. His heart swelled with joy. Against all odds, it seemed that he could have what he wanted, after all. As the adept had pointed out, there were no guarantees in life, but for as long as his mate would have him and none of them was called home to his Maker, they could work together for the common good and spend the nights together, safely cradled in each other's arms. Sending a silent thanksgiving prayer at the address of the One God, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

 


End file.
